


Career Counseling

by Meltha



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, school years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-21
Updated: 2012-04-21
Packaged: 2017-11-04 02:03:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/388450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meltha/pseuds/Meltha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every Head of House has to counsel his or her charges about their future outside of Hogwarts. Some of those conversations prove to be quite memorable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. McGonagall and the Weasley Twins

**Author's Note:**

> All characters are property of J. K. Rowling and are used without financial gain in this work of fanfiction.

“Have you given any thought to your future career?” 

It was a question all four Heads of House had asked at least a thousand times over the years, but each case always seemed to spark one of two reactions. The student would either begin jabbering at once about his or her very specific vocation of choice, or else there would be the dreaded blank stare followed by a long, silent pause until he or she shook his head. Of course, there were exceptions that stood out in every professor’s memory of students who had said exactly the right or wrong thing, the perfect answer or one that was so utterly ludicrous that it was extremely difficult to keep a straight face. For example….

Professor McGonagall looked expectantly at the Weasley twins as they sat in her office, each nibbling almost suspiciously at a biscuit from a plate resting near the hearth. She had called for only Fred, but, as she had rather suspected, both of them had entered her door at the appointed time. At any rate, two at once would speed things up a bit.

“So… what are your plans for the future?” she asked them, sounding every bit as imposing as her decades of teaching could make her and being sure to look down her nose in a particularly authoritarian way.

It caused, of course, utterly no reaction from them.

“Oh, we’ve been thinking that over for ages,” said Fred, waving his hand airily. Minerva always knew which one was Fred since he had a slight tendency to wiggle his toes while he was talking, a trait his twin thankfully did not share. 

“Yes, Professor,” George added, who was always just the slightest bit more respectful. “We’ve been tinkering and planning for well over two years, and we have to say…”

“…we’re really very close to being ready to go,” Fred finished for his twin, who was taking a sip of tea. “We’ve been working on a new line of special effects sweets that probably won’t be ready for a year or so…”

“…since Ton-Tongue Toffee wasn’t really all that marketable,” George continued as Fred dunked a biscuit in his tea and munched on it with a good-natured grin. “If we get the ingredients just right, we think we’re on to the next big thing.”

“You do realize you’ve completely lost me,” Minerva said, trying to sound stern and not slightly amused, as she almost always was around the twins in spite of her better judgment.

“Sorry,” Fred said, shrugging. “We skipped ahead a bit, I reckon. We want to open a joke shop.”

McGonagall’s eyes became a good deal wider, at least partly out of fear of exactly what these two might come up with if they were allowed to run wild. Granted, a very small part of her, specifically her normally neglected inner child, was practically bouncing at the idea, but she very quickly stuffed that part of her personality in a desk and made her do sums, as usual.

“A… joke shop,” she said, trying to sound disapproving. “You do realize that Zonko’s is already doing quite a thriving business in Hogsmeade, I take it?”

“Oh, Zonko’s is good fun,” George said, nodding, “but we’ve got our eye on Diagon Alley, maybe, or possibly something near Godric’s Hollow.”

“Yeah,” Fred agreed, “there’s always room for a bit of competition so long as it’s not too close together.”

Minerva raised an eyebrow. They’d obviously been giving this a good deal of thought.

“I see,” she said. “However, I must point out that if, as it sounds, you intend to concoct various practical joke items that are meant for consumption, your Potions grades do not reflect an aptitude in that area.”

Fred and George looked at one another knowingly.

“Snape never did forgive us for that Canary Cream in his morning coffee,” Fred said. “Rather petty of him.”

“Granted, the Niffler in his chambers was probably a contributing factor…” George said.

“Or possibly the time we got Peeves to follow him around singing that new set of lyrics to ‘Early One Morning,’ you know, ‘Snapey Is So Boring’?” Fred added.

“Charming his shoes to kick him in the bum every third step probably didn’t help either,” George admitted.

“Or maybe when we carved ‘Slytherin Stinks Like Snape’s Sweaty Socks’ into the ice on the lake and Filch couldn’t get rid of it until the thaw,” Fred said. “We really didn’t see that becoming such a popular tongue twister into the bargain, though.”

“Wait,” McGonagall said, startled out of her very pained but successful attempt to keep from bursting out laughing at the memory of that last one. “You were the ones who Charmed his shoes?”

Fred whapped George over the head.

“They didn’t catch us on that one, nitwit!” he said, shaking his head.

“Well, it’s a little hard trying to keep straight which ones we’ve gotten detention with and which are still on Filch’s List of Unsolved Crimes that Deserve Thumb-Hanging,” George said, rubbing his head ruefully.

“You do have a point,” Fred said, pursing his lips in thought. “That list really is pretty long now.”

“Parchment’s going on fifty feet!” George said, smiling proudly.

Minerva stared at the two of them, sighed, then continued.

“Exactly how were you planning to get the funding to start this business?” she asked, and their expressions showed she’d hit a sore point.

“That’s what we still need to work on,” Fred said. “Money’s still a bit of a problem.”

“We thought we might apprentice ourselves somewhere first, maybe Zonko’s if they’d take us,” George said. “We’d need to scrimp for a good while…”

“…but it’ll be worth it,” Fred said firmly, and his twin nodded in agreement.

Minerva looked from one identical smiling face to the other, then back again.

“It’s just crazy enough that it might possibly work,” she admitted. “You may return to your classes.”

They carefully returned their cups to their saucers and were almost out of the room when she called to their retreating backsides, “Oh, and that will be twenty points from Gryffindor each for the shoe incident along with detention next Thursday night, to be spent polishing the entire staff’s shoes without the use of magic.”

“But that was back in our second year!” Fred said, wheeling around on her in disbelief.

“There is no statute of limitations on bum-kicking shoes, Mr. Weasley,” Minerva said, just managing to keep from grinning. “You may go.”

As the door shut behind them, she distinctly heard Fred smacking George in the back of the head, but she studiously ignored it.


	2. Flitwick and Luna Lovegood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luna has a few ideas about her future.

“Now, Professor Hagrid has noted you have an interest in various magical creatures. Is that something you might like to pursue?” Flitwick asked his young charge as he carefully paged through the file of her grades.

“Well, yes and no. I like them all quite well, of course, because really, animals are often much kinder than people, or at least less mean, if you know what I mean,” Luna’s voice said in its dreamy singsong. “I think I’d like working with some of the lesser known ones, though, especially ones we haven’t had in class.”

Filius noted she was looking out the window, an almost unreadable expression on her face. Many of his colleagues had more than once given him significant looks after Luna had said something particularly… unusual… in their classes, looks that did more than merely suggest the blonde girl was half-cracked. Snape in particular had actually threatened him to make sure Miss Lovegood stopped taking Potions after her fifth year since he had no intention of dealing with what he called her “idiotic blitherings and inane blatherings.” Flitwick, for his part, had told him to kindly shut his mouth and stop insulting his students even when they weren’t present. Granted, his rather violent outburst had probably looked ridiculous as he barely reached above Snape’s knee, but still, it was a point of Ravenclaw honor.

“What sort of ones do interest you?” he asked, trying to follow the path of her gaze and realizing she was watching a Thestral circling over the Forbidden Forest.

“Oh, Crumple-Horned Snorkacks, for one,” she said, turning her strangely protuberant eyes back to him. “That, or maybe an in-depth study of the literature of the Gernumblies.”

“But,” he said, trying to find the kindest way to say this without making it sound like he was calling her stupid, “Snorkacks don’t exist, you know, and Gnomes don’t have any written language.”

“It’s an oral tradition culture,” Luna assured him.

“But they don’t have very much of a spoken language, either. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard one say anything other than the occasional ‘Ger’off!’” Flitwick said.

“Oh, you just need to listen more closely,” Luna said serenely. “I’ve tried, but I haven’t heard anything yet either. That doesn’t mean there isn’t anything to hear, though, if I listen long enough. And Snorkacks do exist. They’re just extremely shy.”

Flitwick opened his mouth to contradict her, but shut it again, realizing it was of no use.

“All right, Miss Lovegood, but where would you apprentice for such a trade?” he asked her carefully.

She tipped her head to one side, shutting her eyes slightly in the way that meant she was thinking. The Sorting Hat had made no mistake about her House. Flitwick knew very well that she was extremely bright, which her grades showed. She was simply, well, different.

“I’ve heard that Doctor Artemis Scamander has done some marvelous work with interesting creatures, though nothing terribly exotic, only Fire Slugs and the like, but that might be a good starting point,” she said.

Flitwick smiled.

“Actually, I know Scamander. I could probably write you a letter of recommendation in a few years if you wish,” he said, silently remembering old Newt owed him a favor into the bargain.

“That would be nice,” Luna said, smiling her misty smile. “Thank you. Are we done now? I need to try to find my Bowtruckle earrings. They’re… mislaid.”

He knew perfectly well that the other Ravenclaws had stolen them out of sheer spite, and he sighed. Intelligence didn’t always go hand-in-hand with kindness. Still, since Luna refused to point a finger at the guilty parties, there wasn’t much he could do.

“Yes, Miss Lovegood, you may leave,” he said.

“Thank you for the tea and biscuits, sir,” she said politely as she gathered her books. “If you should happen to find my earrings, or perhaps my purple and orange trainers, would you let me know, please?”

“Yes, I will,” he said as the door closed. Silently, he thought to himself that Luna would probably do much better than the vast majority of her classmates, a bit odd or not.


	3. Snape and Pansy Parkinson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreadful as the prospect is, Snape really must discuss future employment with Miss Parkinson.

“And what, precisely, do you intend to do with your life, Miss Parkinson?” Severus Snape asked in the same tone that a prisoner resigned to torture might ask exactly whether the Cruciatus Curse or being nibbled to death by Nifflers was on the menu for the evening. Whatever the answer, this was going to be painful.

“What do you mean, ‘do’?” Pansy asked, frowning at him with a look of confusion.

“Do, Miss Parkinson. What do you intend to take on as your occupation?” he asked. A headache was already starting to form behind his right eye. He could feel it pulsing.

“Oh, that,” she said, waving a hand dismissively and then in the middle of the gesture eyeing her fingernail varnish critically. Apparently a small flake of green was missing from her right ring finger. “You don’t think it’s too early in the year for celadon, do you?” she asked apprehensively, rubbing the offending nail as though hoping the color would blend.

“Not at all,” Snape responded through gritted teeth. “Personally, I start using pastel shades on my toenails in mid-March.”

“Oh good,” she said, utterly missing the sarcasm in his statement. “What was your question again?”

“Your future career,” he repeated, holding the bridge of his nose. “Do you have any idea what you’re best suited for?”

“Of course,” she said. “Being rich.”

“That is, sadly, not an actual position for which one may apply, Miss Parkinson,” Snape said, wondering why so many of his Slytherins this year seemed completely brain dead. “Did you perhaps have an actual job in mind?”

“Never,” she said dismissively. “I intend to marry a wealthy, pure-blood man, produce an acceptable heir, and devote the rest of my time to stimulating the wizarding economy through haute-couture shopping. Jobs are only for dull, ugly, poor people.”

Snape glared at her from behind his desk as she produced a lip gloss from her sleeve and added another layer of pink to her mouth, though he had to admit he was rather impressed at her ability to do so without a mirror.

“And who, pray tell, is your fortunate groom-to-be?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet,” she said, slipping the lip gloss back into her sleeve. “I’m considering several different possibilities. At the moment, Draco is the lead contender, but I’ve heard rumors that the Zabini fortune is even bigger than the Malfoy one. Oh, but I haven’t completely ruled out Vincent, though.”

Snape’s eyebrows disappeared under his hairline.

“Are you speaking of Vincent Goyle?” he asked in disbelief, trying to picture the elegant Pansy with that oaf.

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “He’s not much to look at or talk to or really to do anything with, though Draco tells me he makes an excellent doorstop, but Mummy and Daddy showed me a picture of the Goyle family manor in Devonshire, it’s the most divine French-inspired castle with two hundred rooms and a garage full of the most elegant brooms. Plus there are the Goyle family jewels, of course: all emeralds and diamonds in platinum settings and easily worth half a million Galleons.”

Snape stared at her, trying to find something to say to her blunt declaration of intent to marry for money and then do nothing. 

“You may go, Miss Parkinson,” he said.

“Thank you, Professor,” she said, standing and gathering her book bag, which appeared to be filled with the entire contents of a cosmetics store from Hogsmeade but not a single textbook, then promenading gracefully out the door.

Really, what could he say to her? She’d already chosen exactly the perfect career for herself.


	4. Sprout and Tonks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pomona has her hands full when Nymphadora's turn for career help comes around.

Pomona didn’t even need to look up to tell who had entered her office. The telltale clatter of the empty flower pot she kept her umbrellas in, followed by a muffled curse and a desperate “Reparo!” told her immediately that Nymphadora had made her arrival.

“Yes, yes, do sit down, Miss Tonks,” Professor Sprout said, still rooting through the files in her desk drawer and rubbing furiously at the labels, which were smudged with dirt as, to be honest, most things in her office were. She had very nearly pulled the file for Took, Nicholas instead of her current charge.

“This is about my future career, isn’t it?” came the girl’s voice in a less than optimistic tone.

“Indeed,” Sprout said, settling back in her chair. “Well, what are you thoughts?”

“That I’d be pants as a ballerina?” she said, aiming for a comic effect except that her voice sounded a good deal more depressed than amused.

Pomona sighed and shook her head. The girl had brains, and of course Merlin knew she was a highly gifted Metamorphmagus, but her klutziness paired with practically daily bouts of verbal abuse from the Slytherins and even the odd Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw for her tendency to trip over things that weren’t even there meant that her self-esteem was very low.

“I recall that you once mentioned an interest in being an Auror,” Pomona said carefully.

Nymphadora (and really, what had her mother been thinking to name her that!) glumly nodded her head.

“I’d like to, yes, but I don’t know that I’d be able to pass the tests,” she said.

“Well, you certainly won’t know unless you try,” Pomona said, trying to sound enthusiastic, but in truth she had some of the same doubts. “Why not at least give it a try, hmm? If it doesn’t work out, we can put our heads together and think of something else that might make you happy.”

The girl gave her a half-hearted smile, and her hair turned from brown to a pale pink.

“Do you really think it’s possible I might make it?” she asked.

No, Pomona thought, no I don’t. But then she saw the determined set in her student’s eyes, the hope that was lighting up their brown… no, wait, blue… depths, and the Herbology professor felt something snap inside her.

“Indeed I do,” she said firmly. “I’ve already got a ten Galleon bet down with Professor Sinistra that you’ll beat Curtis Puddlemere through the training program by at least three months, so you’d best get to training!”

The girl beamed up at her, her hair becoming a vibrant shade of pink that reminded Pomona pleasantly of Fortescue’s best raspberry swirl ice cream. Even if she hadn’t been certain a moment ago whether or not this would end in a disaster the size of Barnabas the Barmy’s infamous Dancing Troll Incident, Sprout was now convinced that somehow she would muddle through in the end.

“That should be all. You may go, Nymphadora,” she said.

“Tonks!” the girl said immediately, then blushed at her outburst. “Ehm, just plain Tonks is fine, Professor. The other is a bit of a mouthful.” 

“Yes,” Pomona said, giving a knowing grin as her young student carefully side-stepped the rows of Fanged Geraniums as she exited. “I quite agree.”


	5. McGonagall and Hermione Granger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minerva is not exactly pleased with Hermione's career plans.

“I’m not sure I quite understand you,” Minerva said, staring at her brightest pupil as though she’d suddenly expressed an abiding desire to marry a mountain troll.

“I know it’s an odd choice of vocation, but I really want to make a difference in the world,” Hermione Granger said, looking Minerva directly in the eyes with the emotional and intellectual maturity of the average professor… above average, actually, if one included Sybill.

“Yes, I’m sure you do,” Minerva said, “but I thought perhaps you might be considering a career as a Healer or a job in the upper levels of the Ministry, maybe even a teaching position at Hogwarts?”

The girl pursed her lips in the same way she always did when trying to frame the answer to a teacher’s question as perfectly as possible.

“It’s not that those choices don’t have value,” she said carefully. “Last year I very seriously thought about working at St. Mungo’s, and I’ve even mulled over trying my hand at research to reverse lycanthropy, but somehow I think I’ll do more good this way.”

“As a house-elf liaison?” Minerva said slowly. “You really think that will utilize your considerable skills to their utmost?”

For a fleeting moment irritation was clear on Hermione’s features, but she quickly schooled her face into a more appropriate expression.

“I know that a lot of people don’t think they’re worthy of interest, but the thought of all those poor elves, toiling away day and night with no pay, no sick leave, no rights at all, it just… well, it makes me feel ill, Professor,” she said, and Minerva wasn’t at all surprised to see tears standing in her eyes. “Someone needs to stand up for them until they’re ready to help themselves, but they don’t seem to think they’re worth it yet, you see. That’s the pity of the thing. The first ones I need to convince about house-elf rights are the elves themselves, and I think that will take a lot of doing.”

“No doubt,” Minerva said, frowning. She had her doubts that a thousand Hermiones would be able to convince even a dozen elves that paid employment wasn’t a shameful goal. “But how precisely do you think you can get paid for this work?”

“Oh, well, that’s the problem,” Hermione said seriously. “Obviously I wouldn’t want to charge the elves for being their advocate!”

“Yes, obviously, especially as they haven’t a Knut amongst the lot of them, except for Dobby, of course,” she said rationally. “So how precisely are you to earn a livelihood in this noble profession?”

“I don’t really need all that much,” Hermione said simply. “I think I might be able to get by working as a part-time receptionist in my parents’ Muggle dentist office in London and then spend the rest of my time promoting the betterment of elvish welfare.”

“A receptionist… in a dentist office?” McGonagall said, feeling rather faint. This was the same student who she had privately thought might become Minister of Magic before she turned thirty, and she wanted to devote herself to knitting shapeless elf hats and alphabetizing tooth x-rays?

“Well, to start with, yes,” Hermione said meekly. “I thought that eventually the Ministry might see the error of its ways and appoint me to an official position with a modest salary.”

Minerva opened and closed her mouth rapidly several times in succession, and she had the sinking sensation she looked like a Confunded Hinkypunk. There was simply no argument she could make against Hermione’s well-intentioned but nearly inevitable career suicide. The bushy haired Fifth year was about as stubborn as she was herself.

“Have it your way,” she finally said with an irritated shrug. “Should you change your mind, kindly contact me immediately.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione said, rising as she slung a bulging satchel of books over her shoulder, immediately adopting a Quasimodo-like posture. “By the way, I really enjoyed the last Transfiguration lesson!”

As the door shut behind her, Minerva McGonagall couldn’t help thinking that the wizarding world had just lost an incredible asset but the house-elves had gained an invaluable ally.


	6. Flitwick and Cho Chang

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two different discussions, a year apart, yield a more specific choice.

It was the giggling that announced her arrival before she even knocked at the office door. Cho never seemed to be without her gaggle of friends, all squealing in delight or disgust at little things, but she was always at their center, the underlying leader of the crew.

“Yes, yes, do come in, Miss Chang,” he said, and sure enough as she entered three or four other Ravenclaw girls could be seen following in her wake, making plans to meet up with her again the moment the session was over as though even a minute’s absence was too much. Really, he didn’t see how Mr. Diggory had worked up the nerve to ask her to the ball with all this rigmarole surrounding her every movement.

“How are you, Professor Flitwick?” she asked cordially as she sat down.

“Quite well. Now, I’m sure you know we’re meeting today in order to discuss your future career options,” he said, shuffling though the papers on his desk and reviewing her grades. “Your marks are all very high, so you should be able to get into practically any advanced classes you wish, but sometimes that actually makes things harder.”

“Too many options,” she agreed rather sadly, and he had the distinct impression her remark wasn’t about the subject at hand.

“Yes, but that’s still better than too few. Is there anything in particular you’ve thought of doing?” he asked her.

“Well… I do like Quidditch,” she said uncertainly, “but I don’t really think I would want to make a career of it. I’ve considered possibly becoming a Healer of some kind, though.”

“That’s fine!” Flitwick said, smiling broadly. “Your aptitudes would mesh well with a career in medicine. Do you have any idea what sort of specialty might interest you?”

“No,” she said. “Honestly, I haven’t a clue.”

Flitwick nodded, his smile still lighting up the room. It was always wonderful when a student chose a job that he felt would be perfect for them, and he was certain Miss Chang would do very well indeed.

It was a year later when she tapped quietly on his office door, no friends following her, and with a noticeably slower tread, but then that was to be expected.

“Yes, Miss Chang?” he asked as she sat in the same chair. 

“I was thinking about our talk last year, and I believe I’ve picked a specialty,” she said. “I was wondering if maybe you could help me pick the classes I’ll need or if you might have some advice to give on apprenticeships?”

“Absolutely,” he said, noting a firmness in her gaze that boded well. “What have you chosen?”

“I believe I could do some good as a grief counselor,” she said. “I mean, I know how people might feel, and I think it would be important for them to talk to someone who understands. Do you think there might be some openings in that field?”

Flitwick nodded, touched by her choice, but with an ache around his heart as he realized that with the war undoubtedly coming around once more, her services might be in heavy demand all too soon.


	7. Snape and Draco Malfoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some futures are written in indelible ink.

Snape looked at his pocket watch and could almost count the exact number of seconds until the knock sounded at his office door. Draco Malfoy was intelligent enough not to offend him by showing up late, but he was also vain enough to make sure he wouldn’t need to wait prior to his appointment. He arrived at precisely three o’clock, not half a minute sooner of later.

“Come in, Draco,” Snape said, and the door swung open to admit his godson.

“Good afternoon, sir,” he said, sitting with a level of confidence unusual in a boy of merely fifteen. 

Snape’s eyes narrowed. Yes, he thought, entirely too confident, exactly as though he knew something he shouldn’t.

“Have you given any thought to what you plan to do in the future?” Snape asked smoothly, his fingers resting on the folder of his grades and test scores.

“Indeed, I have,” Draco said, and there was a smile there that went with the overly confident attitude. It wasn’t quite mocking, not exactly, but it was close. It was, Snape thought, the bud of a patronizing attitude towards him that hadn’t been permitted to fully open yet.

That was a bud he would be sure to nip at once.

“And what, precisely, are your plans?” he asked, his tone much closer to the one he used with Gryffindors than with his own House.

Draco merely smiled, but his eyes were dancing with a hard, almost insane glare. Snape knew that look, knew it entirely too well. It was the shadow of the same cold, hard flame that he had seen burn in Dolohov’s eyes, in Bellatrix’s, in Lucius’s. Yes, he’d seen it in his own as well, glancing in the mirror before Apparating to join the Dark Lord as the Mark burned on his arm, checking that his mask was firmly in place, but the dark, fanatical fire in his eyes had burned from behind the silver face, and he had relished becoming a demon, a powerful one, utterly pure. Until, of course, he’d realized the true, incalculable price.

Snape drew back infinitesimally from Draco, and the professor’s features bore tiny marks of suspicion for a split second before he carefully schooled them back into an impassive mask, the same one he had worn ever since he had doffed the one that belonged to the Dark Lord.

“I believe I asked you a question, Draco,” he said, carefully letting a dangerous edge come to the words. “Kindly respond. Now.”

“No disrespect meant, sir,” he said, though the tone would have been enough for Snape to dock fifteen points from Gryffindor had it been Potter speaking. “It’s just that some things aren’t meant to be spoken of without permission from… shall we say, higher authorities who govern such things?”

For just one brief moment he actually thought he was looking at a young Lucius again, the grin was such a perfect copy.

“Show me your arm,” Snape said, enunciating each word separately, each one a separate and indisputable command.

“Of course,” Draco said, rolling up his right sleeve to show a pristine arm that looked unnaturally white beside the pitch black of his school robe.

“The other one,” Snape said, and there was no mistaking the lack of amusement or the presence of malice under the order.

Even with his cocky attitude Draco did recoil a bit. He relented and showed an equally blank left forearm. Snape managed to catch himself before he exhaled a sigh of relief that his godson was not as big a fool as he had been at his age. A pair of arms, clear and unsullied, just as his own soul still was once upon a time, just as Draco still had a chance to remain, free of everything but stupid, boyish pranks that might still be forgiven him. There was yet time.

“Care to show me yours?” Draco said, and Snape’s head snapped up to meet those gray, cold, winter eyes again.

Whatever transpired on Snape’s face was horrific enough to make Draco’s face drain completely of color in a single heartbeat and draw his chair back a full three inches with a loud scrape against the stone floor.

“You are a little boy playing games that you know nothing about,” Snape hissed through clenched teeth. “Have a care, Mr. Malfoy. Keep on this path and you will have no future worth discussing.”

The boy snorted once.

“I’m a Malfoy. My future is assured, and I’ll rise to the top as always because that’s where I and my kind belong. Anything else is unthinkable,” he said. 

“Do you have any idea how many people would care to switch skins with you? How many would like the indelible Mark removed, the time turned back so that it was never there at all?” he said, sickened.

“Care to trade?” Draco asked scornfully before getting up and leaving the room without waiting to be excused.

“You’ve no idea how much,” Snape mumbled to himself, staring into the fire and realizing that there are some students who cannot be counseled.


	8. Sprout and Hannah Abbott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pomona doesn't know Hannah all that well, but she's sure she must be good at something.

Sometimes, finding exactly the right thing to say to a student is particularly difficult. In the case of Hannah Abbott, Pomona was distinctly flustered.

The girl had completely cracked under the strain of O.W.L.s not four days ago, and only after Poppy’s Calming Draught had she been able to function again. Personally, she’d long thought that Hermione Granger would be the one to begin suddenly running through the Great Hall, shrieking that she couldn’t take it anymore and needed to be sent to live as a Squib in the Muggle world, but when Hannah had fallen to bits, Pomona had been disappointed. 

Hannah had always been a shy young girl, keeping close to her little cluster of friends but not saying a great deal. She wasn’t the sort to get into trouble or win great awards, which meant that Hannah simply wasn’t that well known by the majority of students… well, until now. Now she would undoubtedly be remembered for the one and only time she had drawn attention: her complete emotional collapse. Frankly, Pomona didn’t think that was fair, but then neither was life.

The timid knock at the door made her frown, and when she told Hannah to enter, the knob turned and the girl came in, flushed pink with embarrassment.

“Sit down, and let’s discuss your future,” Professor Sprout said kindly.

“I… um… not sure if… have one,” the girl mumbled.

“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t catch that,” she said, poking into her file.

“I’m not sure if I have one,” she said just a shade louder, her eyes glued firmly to the floor.

Pomona looked at her sharply over her desk.

“What’s this twaddle?” she asked. “Unless Sybill has made some dire prediction about your fate, I’d say you’re not about to die… and even if she has, you’re more than likely perfectly safe for a good century or more.”

“No, I mean I don’t think I can pass the tests. Any of them. I just feel like… like…” she said, looking up at her as though trying to grasp words out of the air, “like my brain is going to explode into a thousand pieces, and I’m going to get the worst grade ever, sub-Troll, and they’ll chuck me out.”

“Nonsense,” Pomona said briskly. “The record for the lowest grade on the O.W.L. is held by Brewster Podmortington in 1854, and considering he even bungled his own name, I do believe you’re safe from claiming that title.”

Hannah didn’t particularly look comforted by this statement, but Pomona noted that she was at least able to make eye contact now, which was a great improvement. She simply couldn’t abide it when people looked anywhere but at her face when they were speaking to her; it made her think she had something stuck between her teeth.

“In any case, assuming that you pass, and considering your grades you should do perfectly fine, have you given any thought to what you might like to do after Hogwarts?” she asked.

“Well, yes,” she said, biting her lip nervously. “I thought I might do well as a photographer.”

“Really?” Pomona said, rather surprised. Of all the things she had expected, this one had never crossed her mind. “What sort of photographer?”

“Portraits, moving-lifes, weddings, that sort of thing,” she said with sudden enthusiasm, and she began digging through her book bag until she produced a small album. “I’ve always quite liked standing back and seeing the full picture of things. People miss so much if they’re in the picture itself, you see. They can’t know what the whole scene is unless they’re willing to draw back and really look.”

Pomona took the book, carefully wiping her hands on her robes first, and paged through to see a series of truly wonderful images: Mr and Mrs Abbott standing silhouetted against a sunset on a beach, an image of an owl circling over the Forbidden Forest in the middle of a snowstorm, even a Flutterby bush that was merely blowing back and forth in the wind, its colourful flowers shuddering with life.

“These are really quite remarkable,” Pomona said, continuing to turn the pages and meeting yet more images that sparkled with life and vitality. “I had no idea you were interested in this sort of thing. The Creevy boy, of course…”

“Yes, Collin is more aggressive, but he never really takes the time to look at what he’s seeing. That’s why most of his pictures keep trying to run out of their frames,” she said.

“Well, Miss Abbott, I think you may indeed have found your calling,” Sprout said, and she gently returned her book to her. “I believe there is a studio in Hogsmeade that might take you as an apprentice in a few years.”

As Hannah slipped the album back into her bag, Pomona thought how strange it was she hadn’t known about this talent at all in the last five years. There was so much that went on below the surface in her students, things she would never know. It was rather humbling.

“Thank you, Professor,” she said, opening the door. As she closed it, Pomona could just barely hear the girl mumbling to herself, “H-A-double-N-A-H, A-double-B-O-double-T… H-double-A-N-H… Oh, no!”

She really did need to remind Poppy to stock up on that Calming Draught. It was going to be a long year.


	9. Slughorn and Tom Riddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Horace doesn't quite know what to make of the boy in light of recent events, but he surely needs a guiding hand.

The boy is always so very kind, Horace thought as he took the proffered box of crystallised pineapple from Tom’s outstretched hand and gave the lad a smile. 

“Well, m’boy, I’m sure you know why I’ve called you here today,” Slughorn began as Tom gracefully took a seat across from him near the fireplace. “I’m also sure you’ve given plenty of careful thought to the topic, as you do everything.”

“Yes,” Tom replied, smiling politely. “I do prefer to have things all planned out ahead of time, at least whenever possible.”

“A good motto to live by,” Horace said, popping one small piece of pineapple into his mouth and offering Tom a sweet as well by a shake of the box in his direction, but he declined. “So, what might your plans be?”

Tom remained silent for a moment, staring into the fire with an expression Horace couldn’t quite place. It was thoughtful, of course, and serious, but there almost seemed to be faint traces of a mocking smile at the corners of his mouth, as though something amused him, something that old Sluggy wouldn’t know about. Horace dismissed it as a trick of the firelight, like the flickers of red in the green depths of the boy’s eyes.

“Antiquities,” he said at last. “I’m extremely interested in the study of the wizarding world’s past.”

Horace puckered his mouth in surprise. This wasn’t what he had thought he would say at all. It certainly wasn’t what he’d anticipated from the star member of the Slug Club, the one he had expected to do very great things, things he couldn’t begin to imagine.

“Really?” he asked. “It’s not an especially lucrative choice, Tommy, you know. I’d have pegged you for wanting a bit more adventure in your life, something to get the blood racing.”

“But I do find history to be most exciting, sir,” he said simply. “What could possibly be more fascinating than learning about the great witches and wizards of the past and building on their knowledge to create a better world for us all?”

“Yes, I suppose the Muggle saying that those who don’t learn from history are bound to repeat it does have some merit to it,” he said slowly, still not quite believing what he was hearing. “Is there a part of history that interests you most?”

“The Founders, sir,” he said, playing with the plain, old ring that encircled his right index finger. “I’m very interested in Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, and, of course, Salazar Slytherin, the greatest of them all.”

“That was a very long time ago, though,” Horace said, shaking his head and unable to conceal his disappointment; there was very little chance of good Quidditch seats or finely aged liquors in his future Christmas parcels from him. “I’m not sure how many traces of that time are even still clinging to the world.”

“One of each should suffice,” he said, and a chill spread through the air as though he’d said something inappropriate, but there was nothing wrong in the words themselves.

Horace looked at him, and he wanted to like Tom. He felt sorry for the boy, and on consideration it could be that his desire for things from long ago was an outgrowth of his abandoned life, wanting to create a history for the wizarding world – a family, so to speak, that he’d never had the opportunity to know. It would certainly make sense. But as sorry for him as he was, he could never quite forget that one conversation a few months ago, the one when that horrible subject had been brought up, and it seemed to poison everything Tom said now.

With a start, he realised Tom was looking at him intently, and he shook himself.

“I apologise. My mind wandered,” he said.

“Of course, sir,” he replied. “Do you think there would be an opening for me anywhere in the future? I don’t mind starting small.”

“Borgin and Burkes might possibly have something to offer you,” Slughorn said, surrendering to Riddle’s future as a nameless clerk in a junk shop … no, Tom’s future. He had forgotten for a moment how much Tom abhorred being called by his father’s name, so much so that Horace had even gotten into a mental habit of avoiding the word even in his thoughts.

Tom smiled.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, rising once more. “I hope you enjoy your pineapple.”

“Yes, yes, you do know my little weaknesses,” Horace said, laughing a little and feeling almost as though that other incident had never happened.

As he was about to leave, Tom turned back and spent one long second almost seeming to study his head of house’s face, and for a moment it was as though a mask had fallen away.

“I really do quite like you, sir,” he said, and he sounded almost surprised by the admission. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, m’boy,” Horace called after him as cheerfully as he could, and then wrapped a cashmere shawl a bit tighter around his old bones to drive away the chill.


End file.
